


language immersion

by natehsewell



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Adam's here too for a second but it'd be a lie to tag him, F/F, Fluff, Natalie Sewell Knows She's Hot, Winona is a GIANT MESS on main, absolutely useless scorpio bisexuals in love, just pure fluff actually, let's call this.... the first time Nat reads to Winona, okay not pure fluff.... a lil bit of horniness..... listen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27376558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natehsewell/pseuds/natehsewell
Summary: Nat’s voice really is lovely.
Relationships: Female Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	language immersion

**Author's Note:**

> absolutely the first thing I post for this fandom is slightly horny, but mostly fluffy, content.... and yes I was totally inspired by the autumn special that Mishka posted....... so lets call this the first time Nat reads to the detective..... anyways! this is completely unbeta'd but it's already way too long as it is, and I'm tired of looking at it, so... here we go <3

When Adam finally releases her from training for the night, Winona is exhausted, sweaty hair clinging to her brow and lungs begging for some respite. The splotchy bruises on her sides, her legs, her arms, will deepen and purple before tomorrow morning; she presses on them even now, thumbing at the aches and pains like badges of pride, the way you press your tongue to a split lip. 

“G’night.” She says mostly to herself, one hand digging at the stitch on her side, the other rubbing at the back of her neck. She isn’t quite looking at their fearless team leader, so when Adam presses a sturdy hand on her shoulder, Winona whips around, feeling the shock as it decorates the widening of her mouth, her eyes.

“You’re doing well, Detective.” Adam says, his voice not quite soft, but not quite hard, either. The rare praise nearly knocks Winona off her feet. Adam doesn’t give false compliments, if he gives compliments at all, and beneath his solid hand, Winona preens, just a little. The flinty jade of his eyes, always narrowed and sharp, eases just a little. Quickly as the moment arrives, it’s gone, and Adam’s palm slips from her shoulders. “You’re more resilient than I expected.”

_ And there it is. _

Somehow, she manages to not roll her eyes at the slightly--though she’s heard worse from him, so she’ll take it--backhanded compliment. “Thanks, du Mortain. You think if I try hard enough, one day I’ll grow up big and strong like you?” 

Adam arches one fine, blonde brow, his expression held firmly in that neutral-to-annoyed area its usually in when he speaks to her (she’ll win him over eventually--though she’ll probably have to stop mocking how he pronounces _laboratory_ to do it), and simply says, “goodnight, Detective."

"Oh, come on, don't be mad!" She shouts after him as he turns away. His weighty military march carries him out of the room in a few strides, and then all that’s left is the hazy hum of Winona’s laugh, echoing through the room.

They’ve held her as a guest (or hostage, if you ask her; not that she actually minds all that much, when the bed here is so much softer than her own,) for the last few weeks, given the price on her poor, vulnerable human head, and the halls of the warehouse stretch out now in familiar paths. Winona can walk them without worrying about getting lost, the cool air settling on her sweat-sticky skin, leaving her shivering. Uncomfortably aware of the smell, and the fact that four vampires with hypersenses prowl the halls, Winona quickly finds her way to her own room, almost running to the door.

For a moment, she pauses, eyeing the golden light pouring out from beneath Nat’s door. A thread of want tugs her toward the room, and then she thinks better of it, quickly heading toward her own room instead.

She can find Nat later. After she’s scrubbed the day’s aches off her skin with the soft-smelling soap she stole from Nat’s shower, and changed into something other than a clinging sports bra and gym shorts. Tossing the still-damp clothes behind her as she walks, Winona stumbles into her bathroom, biting her hisses and groans behind her teeth as the aches set in, throbbing dully in the muscle. 

She pauses, watching herself move in the mirror, the way her body moves now. Somehow, it feels like it should be different. Not the same body she was in just a few months ago. Not the same skin Murphy sunk his teeth into.

Her hands have roughened since she met Unit Bravo; fading bruises on the first three knuckles, there’s still stitch-thin scratches from thorny branches and forested chasing grounds crisscrossing the top of her hand, the length of her forearm, earned from that failure of a diplomatic meeting. 

Her hands haven’t looked this rough since she was a teenager, still picking fights. 

She wonders what it looks like, to them--to  _ Nat _ , really. The way her bruisy skin tears like paper and doesn’t quite go back the same, always scabbing over and coloring at a harsh touch. Is it strange for them? Can any of them even remember what it was like, for a wound to hold that long? Does it linger in the back of her mind, whenever Nat touches her, how easy it would be to break the skin?

Winona would like to think she’s not so easily torn, cut from stronger cloth than that. She comes from a line of women that never flinch at the sight of blood. But that changes nothing when someone’s teeth are at her throat.

But that’s a particular crisis she doesn’t want to go down tonight, so she turns the shower a degree left of scalding, scrubs and scrubs till her skin burns with it. Until all that’s left is the light scent of the soap she’d stolen from Nat a few weeks ago. A hint of the earth, of flowers and spice, sweet but not  _ too _ sweet. When she’d used it the first time, Nat had curled her face into her shoulder like a cat, nuzzling at the soft spread of her shoulders. Three kisses to the top of her back, and Nat murmuring in her ear how lovely the scent was on her.

It’s a comforting smell, one that means safety, protection. 

(Something Winona has never allowed herself before. Rebecca Blackwood’s sharp-tongued daughter, graffiting the mayor’s house before fourteen, taking all the other little troublemakers under her wing--a bad influence, they called her, and she couldn’t say they were really  _ wrong. _ But she always made sure to take the fall when Detective Reele, a grim set to her mouth, finally rolled around, throwing herself in the firing line.)

And suddenly all she wants is Nat. Nat, always so gentle with her, always so careful, chasing away everything that isn’t a thought of her, her, her.

Stepping out, steam coats the entire room in a hazy dimness. Winona wipes condensation from the mirror, leaving behind a smudged image of herself, pink and clean and bright, and quickly wrings out all her long, dark hair with short, jerky twists. A few moments later, she’s clothed in a loose, old t-shirt two sizes too large and a pair of sleep shorts. 

Peeking outside, Winona checks left and right to make sure that Farah isn’t about to jump out at her, bearing suggestive grins and teasing one-liners and questions about her sex life. The coast  _ seems _ clear, and she takes her chance to dart across the hall, coming to a stop in front of Nat’s door. 

She raises her hand to knock, but a soft, “come in,” hums from inside before her knuckles brush the wood. 

Winona almost laughs, shaking her head a little. Of course. She can feel her own heart thumping in her chest--a constant side effect of Nat’s presence--and she’s certain that Nat can hear it too, pounding away just for her. 

She doesn’t know when that stopped bothering her. When the little betrayals of her heartbeat and her breath gave her away every time, so full of wanting. When Nat knowing everything, everything, every cord of desire, became a thrill rather than an unfortunate, embarrassing reality.

The door opens with a small creak, and she flinches, quickly sliding inside and shouldering it closed behind her before anyone can come looking. 

Her room is cast in soft, melty light, a small lamp on a nightstand, and there, still in bed, is Nat, smiling warm as a sunrise. Long brown legs curve just a little beneath her, leading to dark green satin pajamas. Shorts that tighten just a bit on the curve of her thighs, a camisole ridden up just a little, showing a thin line of skin. She’s folded a book in her lap, middle fingers keeping her page, but she’s sitting up. The duvet beneath her, a little rumpled, as if she’d been lying down for a while now.

Winona frowns a little, a sudden sense of intrusion setting in. “Sorry, were you about to sleep?”

“No, not at all.” Nat says, a smile on her mouth that makes her dark eyes glitter in the low light. Winona relaxes, the tension bleeding out of her as quickly as it came. “I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure if you would come by. Training seems…” her gaze flickers over the blooming, purple bruises on her arms, and a hint of concern tightens at the corners of her eyes. “Well, they certainly seem to be running you ragged.”

“Are you trying to rub it in that I could’ve been sitting around, reading books with you this whole time?” Winona groans, her back collapsing on the door. In hindsight, that  _ would’ve  _ been nice. Certainly more pleasant than Adam and Morgan’s ruthless tag teaming in combat training.

Nat, polite as she is, shakes her head, but a guilty little turn of her mouth shows how much she’s trying not to laugh. “Of course not, Winona. I would never.” And then she outstretches both her arms, her book falling in her lap with a soft thunk. “Come here. You look tired. Will you sleep in here tonight?” It’s a plea posed as a question, and Winona’s heart stutters in her chest.

She wastes no time, crossing the room in a few steps.

The bed groans softly, giving beneath her weight, and Winona’s balance falters, nearly sending her tumbling into Nat. She catches herself at the last moment, one hand propping up, digging into the mattress, an apology halfway formed in her mouth, but Nat has other ideas, wrapping both arms around her waist and pulling her the rest of the way forward. They both laugh, legs tangled together, Winona’s cheek pressed to the other woman’s shoulder.

They’ve had so few chances to be alone, and Winona holds each moment like a seed tucked under her tongue. Nat gazes down at her, tenderness blooming over her face now that they’re so close. Winona feels a warm palm trail slowly across her shoulders, Nat’s other arm still locked across her waist, as her legs come to bear on either side of Winona’s hips.

“So, now what?” Winona murmurs, curling into her like a cat, and Nat’s chin rests on the crown of her head. She tries to hold her weight up, away enough to be polite, but Nat gently tugs her back down till she rests fully on her chest. 

“Whatever you want,” Nat hums, though she reaches for her book again. It’s coverless, worn at the seams, like someone has spent many, many careful hours pouring over it. There is no title on the binding. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

“Yeah, me too.” She exhales. Nat’s hand trails from her spine to the back of her head, carding through her hair. Her fingers massage the back of Winona’s skull gently, and Winona’s eyes slide shut at the sensation despite herself. With her other hand, Nat props the book back open, and Winona catches glimpses of the words. French, it looks like, but beyond that she blanks.

“What are you reading?”

“Thérèse Raquin, by Émile Zola.” Nat replies, her accent shifting for a moment, and Winona shivers, because it’s lovely, because _ she’s _ lovely. 

The hand in her hair stumbles, as if sensing the reaction, but Nat keeps her eyes on her book--though a small smirk dances at the corner of her mouth. A moment passes, and Nat resumes her gentle motions, fingers untangling from Winona’s damp hair to skim her ears, the back of her neck, the curve of her shoulders, before finally returning to their place between thick locks of dark hair.

“It’s a tragedy. It was considered quite scandalous at the time.” Nat goes on to say something about naturalists and Zola and the context of the time period for a moment, and Winona listens intently, staring up at her all the while.

“But what’s it actually about?” 

Nat’s nails drag, lightly, across her scalp, pressing again into a massage, and Winona’s teeth sink into her cheek, biting back another sigh of relief. “An illicit affair. Family strife. Unwanted marriages. Murder. The things people do to one another.” 

“Ohh,” which isn’t her most intelligent response, she knows, but Nat slides her smooth palm down the back of her shirt, gently easing the tension out of her shoulders, and she loses any capacity for coherent thought. After taking a second to remember how to speak, she says, “sounds like a real pick me up.”

“It isn’t the happiest of books, no.” Nat smiles around a mirthful exhale.

“Will you read it to me?”

Nat freezes in surprise, then relaxes, leaning back just enough to meet Winona’s gaze. “You want me to read to you?” Her ever-present calm smile blooms into something just shaded left of delight. Maybe even surprise, that she would want that at all. Winona’s heart squeezes with all the care she cannot put into words. Pressing her cheek back to Nat’s chest, Winona can feel her smiling against her hair, placing a kiss there before she says, “I’ll translate.”

“You don’t have to.” Winona says suddenly, nuzzling her cheek against her skin. She could say,  _ your voice is beautiful and everything is so lovely, coming from your mouth, _ but she doesn’t know how, hopes the message is clear enough that Nat could read one of Bobby Marks’ greatest hits and Winona would listen, enraptured. Instead, she shifts, trying to press closer, if that were possible. One of her hands comes to bear on Nat’s hip, thumb tracing the line of her hip bone. The other one curls beneath Nat’s shoulder. Close as they can be. 

Nat chuckles, low in the throat, and it reverbs in her chest, against Winona’s cheek. “My darling,” and, god, Winona loves it when she calls her that, even as she says it with a laugh. “When did you learn French?”

“I very recently developed an appreciation for it. Like, today recent. Call it language immersion.” 

“Hmm,” she doesn’t have to look up to know there’s a coy smile on Nat’s face, subdued in its pleasure. She probably knows exactly what Winona’s doing, with how unsubtle she’s been, and is content to let it happen. “Very well.” She finally says, propping her arm up so that they can both see the pages--not that it will be of much use to Winona. “I suppose the best way to learn a language is to hear it as often as possible.”

“See? You’re so smart.” And she  _ means _ that, lighthearted as she says it.

Nat laughs again, shaking her head.

And so she begins to read, sweeping Winona up in the gente lull of her voice, the way it hums in her chest as she speaks, all while Nat traces shapes along her spine. French flows from her mouth with rounded fluency, and only on occasion can Winona even sort of guess at what one word might mean, when she forces herself into focus. “ Ils fixèrent leurs rendez-vous. Thérèse ne pouvant sortir, il fut décidé que Laurent viendrait… ”

Nat’s voice really is lovely.

They lounge like that, for a time, pressed together as close as can be. Gentle caresses are exchanged, their hearts beating to the same rhythm. Nat playing with the ends of her hair. Winona tracing letters and shapes on the curve of her shoulder. The minutes pass in soft breaths and lilting sentences and the occasional turn of a page.

Winona draws her hand along Nat’s thigh, skin like velvet under her palm, and she loves this, too; being able to touch her, stay close to her like this. Under her, Nat’s hips shift just a little, cradling Winona’s own. 

As her palm slides up, brushing the satin seam of her sleepwear, Nat’s smooth voice hitches, interrupted by the touch. She pauses, readjusts her grip on the book in her hand, clears her throat. 

An all too familiar burn of  _ want _ buds up below the skin, and Nat must be able to feel it, to know (she  _ always _ knows, and it makes Winona’s hands shake, her heart jump into a run). They say nothing, but when Winona slips her hand up against the warm expanse of her side, Nat stops reading to kiss the crown of her head in silent encouragement. 

Winona waits until she begins reading again before continuing her quiet exploration. Nat reaches around to turn a page, and Winona takes the chance to slant her lips to the bow of her collarbone. Then another kiss, this time where her neck meets her shoulders, and Winona can feel her throbbing pulse on her lips. Inviting. She almost bites down, wants to leave behind a mark she knows will disappear within moments. 

Nat arches her neck, open, inviting, even as she laughs. “What are you doing?” She asks, but the question isn’t unwanting. It’s playful, almost giggly. Still, Winona tries to draw away, just in case. 

Nat’s slender palm pushes her back, chest to chest, keeping her close.

“Do you want me to stop?” She says, stilling in place. Her head pulls back to lock their gazes, waiting for confirmation. 

“No,” Nat murmurs, and her eyes darken as they drift over her features, heady and wanting. Winona resists the urge to close the little distance left between them, to part Nat’s lips with her tongue until she whines in her mouth. Stoke an ember into a flame. “But I thought you wanted me to read to you. And you are being terribly distracting.” She says almost like an afterthought, leaning forward to brush their noses together.

“I do want you.” Winona replies, her hand falling from its place at Nat’s thigh. She flashes her teeth, grinning wide. “To read to me, that is.” 

Both hands sink into the plushness of the bed, and Winona uses the leverage to lift herself up, just enough to reposition herself more centered than before. More room to move, more of Nat’s body within easy reach. 

Nat watches her kneel back, rest on her heels. Her mouth falls open, then closes, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip--and her tongue darts out, soothing the indents. Winona stares. Flushes at the dull sheen there. 

Nat smirks, just a little, eyes darkening.

“And I want you.” Nat says. A pause, then, Winona waits for something cheeky. _ To listen to me, that is. _ But it never comes, and she swallows hard. Nat grins wider. Their little game of give and take back on again, of Nat seeing how long it will be before Winona flushes, ruddy and warm and tight with desire. 

Exhaling shakily, Winona slides her hands up, up, up, from her thighs to her hips, thumbs brushing over her lower stomach. And she can feel it, Nat’s stomach clenching, as if shying away and coming back again, the touch too much and not enough. 

Nat’s top ruches up, exposing more skin, and she’s wearing nothing beneath it, nothing at all. It would be so easy to shuck the camisole aside and--

Nat looks at her like she knows exactly what she’s thinking. Heat blisters Winona’s cheeks, and she’s sure she’s red, certain the blood in her cheeks leaves her looking wine-flushed and bright-eyed. “I want you to read to me.” She says, and it comes out hoarse, lined with want.

“And what will you do?” Nat reaches out, interlocking her fingers with one of the palms resting on her stomach, tugging her closer. Every little moment with her sends sparks through Winona’s nerves, and now’s no different; all heat, creeping up the back of her spine. Nat, always composed, always calm, grins in a way that would be almost wolfish, if she weren’t so good. If she didn’t always, always soften herself down.

(Winona wants to watch her composure shatter, wants to take her in her mouth and take her apart and put her back together. Leave her legs shaking and quivering. Leave her boneless and sated.)

Nat releases her hand, crooks her index finger through the collar of Winona’s shirt, drawing her forward till they’re nose to nose, a whisper away from a kiss. “You haven’t been a very attentive listener so far.” Nat breathes, teasing lightly. Her gentle smile steals away any bite, any harshness, and their lips almost meet. Almost. It takes all Winona has to not fall the rest of the way. 

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Winona says, and for a split second, Nat’s teasing glint slips away, a raw genuineness taking its place. She opens her mouth as if to protest, to assuage any unintentional hurt, and Winona grins, nudging their noses together. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She draws one of Nat’s weighted legs up, fingers gripping the back of her thigh, and Nat responds instantly, eagerly, her other leg coming up around her waist, across her back, locking at the ankles. “What do you have in mind?”

Winona tilts her grin into something she hopes is charming and not ridiculous, and probably somewhere between the two, and she kisses the corner of Nat’s mouth. A brush. A tease. “I’ll speak French.” She jokes, wiggling her eyebrows.

Nat laughs, shocked, happily, and Winona laughs with her, till they’re both tangled up in giggles, silly with all that mirth. “Oh, Nona.” She sighs, another chuckle slipping out. “That was terrible.”

“But is it working?” 

“Oh, yes, of course.” Nat says, and it’s so warm and genuine and not at all a joke, and Winona’s chest squeezes up. Squeezes up with all that feeling, that feeling of how she wants to give this woman the world. She’s adoring, beautiful, and Winona doesn’t know what to do with her, with all that unrestrained warmth. “I am completely, utterly seduced.”

Instead of responding, Winona presses kisses--curved with a smile--to Nat’s jaw, her cheek, down her neck. She nips at the delicate skin gently, and Nat gasps, the levity of the moment before gone, replaced with something heavier. She arches her spine, legs tightening around Winona’s waist till they’re so close, so close, and Winona catches her pulse between her teeth, fast and fluttering.

Trailing open-mouthed kisses further down, across her collarbones, her clothed chest, hunger curls up in her, and when Winona looks up, it’s reflected in Nat’s gaze; adoring and starving, all at once. Nat moans quietly, an aching noise, fingers tangling in all of Winona’s dark, dark hair.

“Are you going to read?” Winona says, tilting her head into the cup of Nat’s hand against her head.

“With you here, before me?” Nat murmurs, dropping the book to bring her other hand against Winona’s cheek. “How could I focus on anything else?”

Winona’s eyes flutter shut, concentration easily lost to the plying warmth of her lover’s hands (and it’s in the gentle touches Winona aches the most; a hand to her face, a press of their foreheads, when there is no disguising the complete and utter adoration she feels for Nat, or vice versa. It is so raw between them, so open, a hearth and a wildfire both, and all she can think is Natalie Sewell is everything she’s ever wanted, everything she never knew she wanted.)

“I think you can do it.” Opening her eyes, she turns her head to kiss the palm against her cheek.

“I think you overestimate my abilities.” Nat says, caught on the end of a breathy laugh. “How utterly enraptured I am with you.”

“Please?” She whispers, and Nat hums again, languid, roughened with desire, relenting and relented. Winona takes the hand at her cheek and holds it, tracing kisses down the bend of her wrist. “I love listening to you.”

“Well, since you asked so sweetly...” Hesitantly, Winona releases her wrist, and Nat’s gaze--so dark, burning--never leaves hers, even when she works the book back open with one hand.

Nat’s voice is relatively steady as she begins to read, a slow rhythm to her every word, but tension threads through it, heavy and wanting.

“ _Il avait, dans sa prudence_ - ” Winona drops, trailing kisses across the skin she can reach, her shoulders, the top of her breasts. Butterfly kisses, barely more than a graze, but enough to a vampire’s sensitive skin. “Une sorte de témérité brutale, la témérité-  _ ah _ .” She nips at the curve of her hipbone, and Nat shivers, teeth in her bottom lip, laying the book on the bed again to  _ watch _ .

Winona reaches forward to drag the thin strap of her satin top down, and looks up for confirmation that it’s all right.

Nat gives it, a nod of her head, her mouth open and eyes half open, warm brown eyes heavy, slated with heat.

Caressing her hands up, under satin, against flesh, Winona’s thumbs brush the underside of Nat’s breasts, and they both exhale, shaky, anticipating. Nat arches her spine, just a little, her rib slotting against Winona’s hands, and it would take nothing to touch her where she wants. Nothing at all.

Winona pulls away instead, snatching the ends of Nat’s camisole and tugging it slowly upward. Nat wastes no time sitting up, just enough for her to shuck the top away, throw it into some dark corner of the room, and  _ oh, _ Winona stills, even now.

She sighs, the breath escaping her with a stumbling ache. Follows the landscape of Nat’s body with her eyes, from the gentle sway of her smile (and if Natalie Sewell were a lesser being, Winona imagines she would look a little smug), to the arch of her neck--and Winona still wants to leave a trail of marks there, dark and purple and raw, for the few moments they’ll stay-- to the soft swell of her breasts, rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Nat hums, pleased with herself, pleased with the response she receives, leaning back into the pillows. The lines of her body pull taut. She’s got a subtle sort of strength, a hint of muscle, wreathed in gentler curves and smooth skin. Winona leans down to follow the ‘v’ of her hips--interrupted by the seam of Nat’s shorts--with her mouth up, up,  _ up,  _ across her ribcage, to the valley between her breasts. 

“Winona, please--” she sighs, bending up, and Winona bites back a laugh as she pulls away completely, rising on her knees to take in the full view of Nat’s body, and god-- she’s never going to get used to it, to this. Nat follows, insistent, leaning up with her and wrapping her hands around Winona’s waist, only seconds away from pulling her back.

“Please what?” Nat’s brows arch, eyes widen, taken aback--and Winona knows she’s changed the rules on her, and she almost laughs at the expression (for every blush and fluster and speechless moment Nat has wrung out of her with a honeyed tongue and soft mouth.) “ _Please_ …?”

But Nat is nothing if not quick on her feet, and she recovers quickly, shock morphing into a slow, languid smile, and Winona wonders, briefly, if she’s bitten off more than she can chew. Nat’s hands--still cinched about her waist, shirt shucked halfway up, fingertips digging in just enough to be aware, to enjoy--slowly rise upward. 

“Please, darling,” she whispers, and Winona’s breath stutters in her chest at that, the dip in her voice, the heady look in her eye, and she might be the one lying down, but there’s no question that Nat knows exactly what she’s doing, that she’s holding Winona by her heart. “Don’t be a tease. Touch me.” 

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed! feel free to hmu on tumblr to talk about these emotional support vampires @dumortainava


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